The Honeymooners
by Little Red Rose on the Valley
Summary: HSS/Michael x MC (Past). Michael Harrison, now a world-famous travel and aventure journalist, is summoned back to the US for an unpleasant task.


Providence, Rhode Island was just as a prime example of bland Americana as he remembered.

Perhaps he was just cranky after a fifteen-hour long transatlantic flight, perhaps it was due to his own personal preference to wide, open spaces and natural scenery, perhaps it was over the ungrateful task that brought him over to the States in the first place, but the colonial, repressed city seemed particularly distasteful today.

He and the cabby, an elderly Black man who eyed him curiously, did not change a single word other than him uttering the address of the office building he was supposed to go. The music, which he did not recognize, did nothing to distract his thoughts.

There was an urge to sight out of dread at the back of his throat, but he suffocated it. There was no chance for him to do it and the cabby not to hear. He would prefer to keep humiliation at a minimum today, his ego would take too much of a blow by lunch hour anyways.

Finally, the cabby speaks up and says: "Hey, aren't ya that guy on Discovery Channel? With that traveling show where you swim with sharks and stuff?"

He supresses a cocky smirk. He was not expecting for someone to recognize him out of the streets. He was more successful than he expected, he might even be kind of a celebrity, right?

Nonetheless, his mood was a little too sour to talk to the man in length, which he would certainly want to, regardless of his fame status. After all, it was not every day you meet a guy who surfed the Pororoca, who ventured to the depths of the Congolese rainforest and who fished off the Pitcairn Islands.

So, he lied, using his best fake foreign accent. "No. I'm pretty sure you have me confused."

"Really?" He asks, suspicious. "You look so much like him!"

The driver shrugged and stopped observing him so closely. Sometime later and he jumps off the car at some fancy office building by the river. He supposed he could have stopped by the hotel before, but he was travelling light and he supposed he had left her waiting long enough.

He gave his name and appointment to the receptionist at front desk, who walked over to the meeting room where they were waiting for him.

The first one to notice him was, of course, _her_. She wore a flowing summer dress that valued her figure without clinging too close to her body. The deep blue eyes, like pools in springtime, and the blond hair tied neatly on top of her head were also just like he remembered.

"Michael!" The nagging voice seemed to be very much intact as well, he considered briefly. "So nice of you to join us. I was starting to think that we would have to track you down in Gaborone at this point."

"I live in Johannesburg, Lisa." The man says, rather exhaust. "You know I live in Johannesburg."

She rolled her eyes, snottily. "No, I do not. Last time we spoke, six months ago, you lived in Botswana. You must have moved and have forgotten to tell me. Again."

So he did, now he stops to think about it, but he would not give her the satisfaction of admitting it.

A suited man next to Lisa, whom he assumed was her lawyer, coughed awkwardly. "Mr Harrison, we are glad you could join us this morning. Since we are all here, we might as well move ahead with the proceedings."

He sat on the opposite side of the table, next to a man he vaguely remembers being the lawyer the broadcaster hired to represent him.

"Yes, _please_." She bemoans and slides a piece of paper to him. "Look, Michael, let's just cut to the chase, shall we? I'm sure you have plenty Pacific atolls to visit, just sign the divorce agreement and we're done."

"Can you be more eager to get rid of me?" The cinematographer says, channelling his inner brat. "Why so fast, Lisa, honey? Eager to return to any Wall Street-type boyfriend I need to know about?"

He achieved the desired effect, as the woman groans loudly. "Jesus Christ, Michael, you're thirty-seven not fourteen. Act your age for a change!"

"Act my age?!" He shouts back. "I just want to know whether you made a fool out of me before we separate."

"Like you did with that loose Mauritius islander?" She accuses. "What's her name? Indira?"

Michael groans loudly in frustration. "There it is! It took you long enough to mention it this time."

"Indeed, I must be a very neurotic woman to keep replaying in my head that one time my husband went half across the word on a honeymoon segment on the week of our anniversary without telling me." The blonde woman said, with biting sarcasm. "Not satisfied, said husband find some cheap island bimbo and hooks up with her. Really, a whacko."

"What do you call someone who says they forgive you but throw it back on your face every chance they get?" He asks, ironic. "I have a few colourful adjectives I can try out if you like."

She glared at him while signing her copy of the papers with sadistic glee.

The man looks down at his own copy of the document and stares at the first page, which contained the words 'Divorce Agreement' printed in all caps at the top. The black ink and the bureaucratic font made it feel so real, so final.

He remembers a time, not that long ago, when he and Lisa were so in love it was almost nauseating. A time when every day he spent away from her physically hurt and every encounter filled his heart with happiness.

Now what? He was supposed to sign a document and pretend half of his life did not happen. They were together since sophomore year in high school. They went to college together, she supported his dream of becoming an adventure journalist, she was there on his happiest moments and supported him on the greatest hardships.

He did not want it to be over. He still loved her. He was hurt, yes, he resented her ever since she decided to stop moving around the world with him and moved back to Rhode Island in search of a perceived stability. That did not mean he stopped loving her.

He was sure Lisa did not want it to be over, either. Why else would she be so prickly about his… mistake if she did not care? He just needed to tell her, to make her know she was still important to him, and it all would go away.

But he does not say a thing.

Instead, he says, "If you cared to call more often, we might not have come to this situation."

"If you cared to answer when I _do_ call, we really might not have come to this situation." She counters, her cheeks flushed in anger.

Michael sighs and signs the document. They exchange copies and repeat the process.

He slides his copy to his attorney, who says, "I will file these this afternoon, Mr Harrison. If it all goes well, and I don't see any reason why it wouldn't, you should be legally separated within the week."

The man nods his understanding, picks up his bag and leaves the room with no further words. He just wanted to go to his hotel, draw the blinds and forget the world exists for a while.

It was seven o'clock in Johannesburg. He could drink himself to oblivion.


End file.
